


Reconfigure

by sallysorrell



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Children, Domestic Fluff, Family, Fluff, Growing Old Together, Growing Up, M/M, Old Married Couple, Other, Team McSpirk, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:52:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Domestic McSpirk fluff, in vignettes.  Because I'm not sure how much exists, but it isn't enough.</p><p>Canon-compliant through The Motion Picture, after which it diverges.</p><p>If you have any thoughts or requests, feel free to send them to me or write them yourself.  All are welcome in the Stella-verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Plan

Kirk reclined in his chair, sighing as it creaked.  McCoy leaned over, to refresh the contents of his glass.

“Don’t see what’s taking Spock so long,” McCoy shrugged, “I’m trying to save him some.”

Kirk held the glass above his face, and peered up through the hazy beverage.

“I’m sure he’s being very thorough about the paperwork,” Kirk affirmed. 

“That sounds about right.  I think teaching’ll suit him just fine.”

The younger man set his glass on the low table before them, between two dust-riddled boxes.  He had not had time to unpack, since his rushed return to San Francisco.  _Permanent,_ he reminded himself, _I’ve got plenty of time._

“I hope so,” Kirk sighed, “Promotion was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

“I told you.”

“I know.”

The cups were pressed together on the table.  Uncomfortably, Kirk shuffled and crossed his legs.

“If I could do it all over again,” he said slowly, “I wouldn’t take it.  I’d never take it.”

The pause spread between them like a drop of ink, messy and meaningless.

“What would _you_ do?  If you could do one thing differently…” he continued, folding his hands together in a way Spock often demonstrated.

“I don’t know,” McCoy spoke into his glass, “I – well… I guess I’d spend more time with Joanna.”

Kirk’s nod was slow and reassuring.

“David,” he mumbled to himself.

“Marcus?” McCoy confirmed.

“Yeah.”

Later that evening, they wove through the crowded hall to meet Spock.  The Vulcan stood amidst colleagues and crewmen, internally shrugging when begged to repeat his experience.

With a knowing grin, Kirk reached to shake his hand.  The connection was brief.  Warm.

_You cannot live your life ‘over again.’_ Spock presented, with the best of intentions.  Kirk drew his hand away, and barred it behind his back.

Cold.  Incomplete.

Concerned with the interpretations of his crew – his _friends_ – Spock chose not to take Kirk’s hand again.  He waited for McCoy to repeat the gesture.

_It cannot literally be done.  Relay that to the Ca—to the Admiral._

McCoy tapped Kirk on the shoulder, whispering the words against his neck. 

“Congratulations, Spock,” Kirk said.  This was accepted as a response to his apology.

McCoy ensured the presence of everyone and their glasses. 

“To Spock,” he said, “May the logical choice be the right one.”

The cups clinked together, two at a time.  Then, three.

Just after midnight, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy found themselves in the lonely apartment.  Spock occupied his preferred chair, and stared across at his friends, who were forced to share the other.  McCoy complained, at first, but recalled the age of the room and compared it to that of their relationship.

“Admiral,” Spock began, “You are troubled.”

McCoy understood this as a request for diagnosis, and set his hand gently over Kirk’s.

“Yes, Spock.  I am.”

“Do you disapprove of my decision?”

“No… it just gave me a lot to think about.”

“Yes,” Spock said, trying and failing to sort through Kirk’s thoughts.  Some escaped, and combined with the ever-ambitious passions of the doctor.

Their hands remained linked.

“Have I told you of the initial segment of my curriculum?” Spock continued, staring intently at their hands.

“No,” said McCoy, absently sifting his fingers through the admiral’s, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It is a genetic experiment, which the Federation wishes to fund.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, Spock.”

“You will, Doctor, if you can force yourself to listen.  Essentially, it will offer the chance to live ‘all over again.’”

Kirk glanced at him, eyes wide.  Every light in the room was off, and the only glow remained within the depths of the fireplace.

 

...

“This,” McCoy vowed, “is the single most ridiculous thing I have _ever_ been a part of.”

Kirk smiled, and offered his hand.

“The data so far has been most promising,” Spock assured, scanning through it on his tablet.

“The data, Spock, doesn’t say anything about your performance as a parent.”

“No; that cannot be accurately predicted.”

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Kirk twisted the ring on his finger.  Spock’s was kept on a chain around his neck.  As was McCoy’s, when maintaining his medical practice.

“The result,” Spock said, “Will be female.  That is the intention of the program; to aid in population growth.”

“There’s that tender side I was looking for,” shrugged McCoy, “The _result_ you’re talking about is _your_ daughter too, Spock.”

“Partially,” said Spock.

Kirk watched them, eagerly glancing up from the charts he held.

“What’ll she call us?” McCoy asked, bored of the silence.

Kirk turned to look at him.

“I’m not worried about it.”

“The more logical approach,” Spock presented, “Is finding what _we_ shall call _her_.”

 

...

The baby was called _daughter_ , when Spock consented to holding her.  She was wrapped entirely in yellow blankets, gifts from friends.  He ventured to press two fingers against her face.  She smiled up at him.

Her smile was a constant, as she grew.

_Darling,_ she was called, when McCoy was alone with her. 

They sat in the recliner, watching the fireplace.  He braided her hair.

She became _sweetheart_ , when she bargained for one more bedtime story. 

Kirk sat beside her, kissed her forehead, and told her tales of his time in space.  Spock, collecting her toys and putting them away, did not correct the details.  McCoy stood in the doorway, and nodded.

She tugged the blanket up over her face, politely retiring from the conversation.

“Goodnight, Stella,” McCoy said first.  Then Kirk.  Then Spock, accompanying it with a gentle kiss from his fingers.

 

...

The matter of her name required no serious debate.  It meandered through playful arguments, then insistent modesty.  Her birth was defined as alien, therefore she required no surname.

“Then it’s gotta be something unique,” McCoy said.

Kirk presented his answer one night, tangled up in their bed.  He stretched to reach the ancient lamp, and pulled the chain to ignite it.

“Was this influenced by a dream?” Spock asked, somewhat envious of the human concept.

“Lack of,” he said, tossing a hand toward the skylight.  None of them had slept restfully; she was anticipated to arrive within the week.

“Constellation,” McCoy echoed, “I like it.”

“It is fitting,” Spock said.

“The final piece of our family,” Kirk grinned, “Among the stars.”

“Ours,” Spock repeated, fondly.

“Ours,” McCoy assured.

 

...

“Once she starts asking questions,” Kirk whispered, “She’s _your_ daughter.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. 

Stella was finally asleep in her room, free of the constant procession of admirers.  Many were prefaced, by Kirk, with the terms ‘Aunt’ or ‘Uncle.’  McCoy agreed that formal language was best, while Spock insisted her Vulcan part would lock away the information for later.

“I do not estimate verbal communication for several months,” Spock said.  Jim had placed both hands on the Vulcan’s shoulders, and they pulsed against the heartbeat, crawling up from his side.

“She’s only, what?” McCoy paused, “Fifteen percent Vulcan?”

“Sixteen-point-six-seven percent, Doctor.”

“Thank you.” The roll of his eyes was practically audible.

Kirk offered a gentle laugh, until McCoy held a finger to his lips.  Spock always admired this gesture.

“If you wake her up,” McCoy said, drawing his finger toward the girl’s bedroom, “She’s yours.”

 

...

Thunder tapped the windows of the old apartment.  Its many windows welcomed the lightning.

As the rain began pattering against the roof, they found their bed suddenly smaller.

Stella knew which side to approach.  She also knew it was rare to find Daddy there.  He often slept in the middle.

She pressed soft breaths against his face, whispering his assigned name until he turned to face her.  His eyes opened, one at a time.

“What is it?” Kirk asked.  He had learned not to ask ‘what’s wrong?’ as this awoke McCoy instantly, without fail.

She pointed to the portal in the ceiling, a fine stage for the dancing lightning.  Her remarks were soft but stiff, as she presented her fear: all of the stars were falling at once.

“It’s just a rainstorm,” Daddy assured her.  She shook her head, until earning a friendly and exaggerated sigh.  Kirk held up the blanket from his shoulder, and watched her snuggle beneath it. 

He stroked her hair with one hand, and Spock’s, distractedly, with the other.

_In the morning_ , the connection seemed to speak on its own, _she’s yours again._

 

...

Most mornings, _Father_ sat down with her, on the carpet as she requested.  _Daddy_ prepared himself for work.  _Papa_ resigned himself to making breakfast.  Most days, he had to insist on having Jim eat with them.

Otherwise, Kirk would sit at the table and watch, and talk, and always leave two minutes too late.

“Eat,” McCoy often advised, setting a plate before him.  Generally, Spock nodded and repeated the comment.  Then, Jim would eat.  Only then.

Today, he ate and smiled.  He would not be late for work.  _Uncle_ Sulu, he said, would be taking over his daily lecture.  The girl was delighted; it was rare for her whole family to spend the day at home.

Stella let Papa cut the banana pancakes into smaller pieces.  She pressed her back against his chest, as he leaned over her chair.  She rustled against his shoulders, stretching to hum into his ear.  He kissed the top of her head, and set the fork down in front of her.

Spock told her about replicated foods.

“These are not replicated,” he said, in conclusion.  He was accustomed to eating traditional earth foods, by now.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” McCoy said.  Stella giggled, unaware, and immediately moved her chair to be between them.

Originally, the square table housed one chair at each side.  Now, invariably, they were arranged in a single line, with Stella in what she insisted was the ‘middle.’

Kirk’s smile was light, overflowing with approval.  He slipped the ring from his finger, to remind himself of its reality.  He squeezed it in one hand, hard. 

Spock watched, while McCoy was occupied by Stella’s illustrations, done in chocolate syrup.

The Vulcan slipped his ring from beneath his shirt-collar.  Kirk swore the smile was mutual.


	2. Discover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter in 24 hours, AKA yes, I am crazy.

Stella enjoyed having time alone.  Mostly because, if she felt the need to call or question things, she would be answered by every possible parent.  Immediately.

She had found a mountain of boxes in the back of the closet in Daddy’s office.  They were never unpacked; there was no need for substitution or sentiment.  The boxes contained all the things that reminded Kirk of the others.  But they were _there_ , and the boxes were eagerly forgotten.

Some were too heavy.  Deciding not to call for help, she left these alone and skimmed all she could reach. 

She lifted the lid of the lightest box, and was thorough in emptying it.  Her imagination was invited to pick up something bright. 

A shirt; blue.

Having shaken the dust away, she tugged it over her head.  Her wrists were caught only halfway down the sleeves, and she flapped them in delight.  She considered it a dress, and rolled the sleeves up as tightly as she could, before wandering to the kitchen.

She would walk regally.  She would be a princess.

Papa saw her first, sitting at the table and reviewing submissions from Spock’s students.

“That’s one of Father’s shirts,” he told her, even though she did not ask, “Daddy would _love_ to see it.”

She agreed on wearing it until he arrived at home.

“Oh, Stella,” he said, upon opening the front door, “Where did you find that?  I’ve been looking for it for _years_.”

She was hoisted onto his shoulders, placing both hands on his head and letting the sleeves dangle between his eyes.  When they reached her room, she sprawled across her bed and requested a story:

“About the shirt,” she proposed, dragging the sleeves over her knees.

The story took several consecutive nights to complete.  It encompassed their meeting – Daddy’s and Father’s – and all of the trips they took together. 

“Papa has one like it, too,” Daddy said, in breathless conclusion, “Do you wanna hear _that_ story?”

Her quick nod seamlessly combined Papa’s authenticity with Father’s alacrity.

She wore one of the fabled shirts to sleep every night, until both were haunted by holes.  Papa offered to repair them, after digging through medical displays to find a needle.

…

One of her earliest observations was met with pride.  She approached Spock, as he was setting up the chessboard.

When she reached for his chest, he did not retreat.  After four years of careful experiment, he knew she possessed no Vulcan intuition of touch.

She peeled the chain from beneath his shirt, and stared intently at the ring.

“You all have one like this,” she announced.

“Yes,” Spock said.  He substituted ‘that is true’ for the more affectionate ‘you are correct.’

“Why?”

“It is a human tradition,” he said, “It displays marriage.  You have learned about this; they serve as a physical reminder of an emotional connection.”

Spock aligned the game-pieces, while Stella watched.

“Do you have further questions?” he began, as she jumped into the seat across from him.

“Can I play with you?”

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow, and peered at her from between two pawns.

“If you allow me to teach you.”

She argued that she had watched Daddy play with him before, and could copy the memorized patterns.

“There are hundreds of trillions of patterns.  While your memorization is admirable, it is not logical.”

Stella shrugged, and allowed Father to teach her the names and directions of each piece.

They remained there, late into the night.  Kirk arrived home, and found them too entranced to notice.  He placed a hand on each of their backs.

Slowly, they turned.

“Father taught me it,” she said.

“Did he let you win?”

Stella shook her head.

Spock offered an incredulous expression, while Kirk laughed and pulled a chair up beside their daughter.

“Maybe together,” he said, “Two is always better than one.”

…

Sometimes, Stella wore glasses.

The reasons all revolved around Daddy: she shared his allergy, but also desperately enjoyed emulating him.

Spock created them for her, after McCoy guessed at their prescription.

She kept them in a case on the mantelpiece, as she enjoyed sitting and reading before the fire.  Spock procured a collection of genuine paperback books, and checked her progress daily.

When she reached to tuck her hair back, the glasses slid further down her nose.  She sighed and corrected them, after setting down her book.  She would remember the page she was on, and the sentence.

She returned her focus to the story, mouthing the words as she read.  Daddy taught her this method, and she always thought of him when wearing her glasses.  Father’s lips did not move when he read, nor did Papa’s.  She wondered if they remembered any of the words, that way.

McCoy was almost afraid to approach her, and interfere with the world her mind was creating.

But he took another step forward, each time she shoved her hair out of her eyes.

“Here,” he said, tapping her shoulder then pointing toward Daddy’s recliner, “Come sit with me.”

Her eyes protested, in a way McCoy found warmly familiar; with or without the glasses, they _were_ Kirk’s.

“You can read to me, if you want.”

She agreed, and described the braids she wanted in exchange.

When Daddy told her stories, he never read them.  Spock said they were all true, and that he had merely memorized them.  She tried to make up a story, and blend it with those within the book.  She began by ceremoniously removing her glasses, and setting them on the table.

“That’s exactly what your Daddy would do,” McCoy said, meticulously separating strands of her wavy hair.

She beamed.


	3. Say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This now officially has a playlist: http://8tracks.com/vulcanmoonlight/songs-for-stella

“Why doesn’t Father say ‘I love you’ to me, or you, or Papa?”

Kirk looked down at her, from between the two cups he carried.  He set one down within her territory of the dining table, marked by scattered crayons and samplings of stuffed animals from Earth and Vulcan.

“He does,” Kirk said, setting a chair across from her.  He sipped the lemonade, until Stella sighed and did the same.

“He has never said it to me.”

“I won’t question your memory,” her Daddy decided, “But you _know_ that he does.  He shows us.”

“How?”

“There are lots of different ways.”

…

Whenever McCoy was in a rush to meet a patient, Kirk made him coffee.

If he had misplaced some necessary tools or documents, Spock would list all the places he had _not_ seen them, while Kirk searched.

Kirk caught the collar of his jacket, smoothing the creases then patting his chest.

“Need anything else?”

“No,” he said, brushing Kirk’s shoulder as he left, “Thanks.”

…

The Vulcan did not require as much sleep as his human counterparts. 

When Jim fell asleep in the midst of Federation paperwork, head against his desk, Spock would run both hands slowly through his hair. This transferred no thoughts, but Spock’s repressed humanity saw it as comfort and escape.  Although Jim sometimes accused him of counting grey hairs, Spock’s eyes were always shut during the interaction.

McCoy usually fell asleep in one of the recliners, with a book Stella had assigned to him.  Spock would take the chair across from him, lean in, and tuck one hand beneath his shirt.  Spock’s connection with the doctor was strongest when his fingertips met the skin just beneath his collarbone.  He did not connect with McCoy for memories, but for feelings.  He enjoyed the dramatized depictions of their daughter, secondhand.

Each time either awoke, they agreed to greet Spock with a human kiss.  He would brush their lips with his fingers, as they departed.

…

Stella liked to watch them play chess; Father and Daddy.

“You used that last time,” she said, catching Daddy’s bishop and returning it to its home.

“Oh?  Did I, Spock?”

“I saw no need to tell you, since you did not ask.”

“Hmm…” he considered his remaining pieces and rested his chin on one fist, “I think I may call that cheating.”

“I must disagree, Admiral.”

Stella had asked about their other names, once, and received a lengthy story.  Now, she just nodded and understood.

“I did not repeat my move, which was instrumental in my previous win.”

“Ah.”

“Would you like my advice, Admiral?”

“I think, after thirty years playing you, yes.  I would.”

...

Kirk took his showers at night, after they all agreed that Stella was asleep.  McCoy’s were always in the morning, preceding either a day at work or with Stella.

Spock found this human custom wasteful, but eventually accepted them as an occasional indulgence.  He tested both traditional timeslots, settling for the morning.  After McCoy.

He stood and waited on the other side of the door, listening to the cascade of water and the doctor’s frequent humming.

One morning, they met.  McCoy tugged at his robe, and draped the towel over his shoulders.  Spock reached for the familiar meld-point; it was cold.  Even to prepared Vulcan fingers.

“Doctor?”

“Hmm?”

The water could still be heard, tapping against the glass-paneled shower.

“You are w—”

“I didn’t want it to be too cold for you,” he admitted, rustling his hair with the towel, “It should be plenty hot, by now.”

…

Spock always knocked before entering Stella’s room, although her door was usually open.

“Have you completed your assignments?” he asked, standing beside her bed.  She kicked up both legs, but kept her face pressed into her tablet.

“No.”

“I assumed not, as you have not joined us for dinner.  You may find it constructive to ‘take a break,’ as the others say.”

“I don’t understand it.”

“What do you not understand?”

“The questions.”

He sat down beside her, extending a patient hand and accepting the device.

“I see,” he said, scrolling through the equations, “Let me help you.”

 

…

“Do you want me to list some more?” Kirk asked.  Stella always enjoyed his stories, and was tempted to nod.

“He loves all of us,” she agreed.

“Really,” Kirk continued, eager to tie the tales up with a bow of values, “the words don’t matter that much.  What matters are the actions… the hugs, and kisses, and games, and dances.”

“I still like the words.”

“I know you do.”

That night, Spock said them to her.  He required some coaxing – verbal from Kirk and physical from McCoy – but he sat at the foot of her bed, leaned close to her ear, and said them.


	4. Build

“It’s nothing to worry about, Spock,” McCoy assured, whispering gently.  The Vulcan felt the heat of his partner’s hand, as it passed over his shoulder.

“I am not worried,” he responded, “I merely await the results.”

“Right… You’re not gonna be like this when Jim’s parents come to see her, are you?”

Spock sat down before the fireplace and folded his hands.

“I assume not.”

Doctor McCoy took the seat beside him, dragging it closer so both armrests touched.  The conversation continued quietly, at Kirk’s sharp and crooked gesture.

He held the baby, Constellation, and watched her drift in and out of her nap.

The speaker at the front door hummed, so Spock and McCoy went to attend it.

Sarek stepped in first, nodding twice at his son and once at the others. 

“I see you are well,” he said, in culmination.

Amanda followed him, rolling down the embellished, purple hood she wore.

“Spock,” she said fondly, stepping closer.  He accepted her embrace, leaning down to align their eyes.

Next, she moved to McCoy, rocking back on his heels.

_You are worried,_ Spock presented.  McCoy shook his head, once Amanda was buried against his shoulder. 

Spock watched, amused, as his mother took the doctor’s arm and walked to the center of the room.  Beside the dining table, Jim had arranged Stella’s bassinette, and set her carefully in it.  She watched everything appear above her with wide, curious eyes.

“Oh, James, she looks so much like you,” the woman decided, after greeting him, “She’s _darling_.”

“You can hold her, if you like,” Kirk assured, “She’s awake.”

Amanda reached into the basket, tightened the swaddling blankets, and tucked the baby into her arm.

“I must tell you,” she said, leaning closer to Kirk and McCoy, “that I never expected to have grandchildren.”

Sarek agreed, and questioned Spock about the genetic studies which produced her.

“Constellation, isn’t it?” Amanda proceeded, swaying gently.

“That’s right,” McCoy said.

“’Stella’ for short,” Kirk added.

“How fitting.”

Briefly, she passed the child to Sarek.  He held her with an overly steady sort of uncertainty, declaring her to have received the ideal distribution of her parents’ features. 

“The pointed, Vulcan ears are a dominant trait, I see,” he observed, “Such data has never been compiled.”

Amanda sighed at him, and remarked further about her beauty.

“If you ever need anything,” she said, as they left that evening, “Just let me know, and I’ll be here.”

“Thank you,” the three of them said at once, shrugging at the effects of their constant mental link.

…

When Kirk found his daughter that afternoon, after exchanging posts with Spock, she was sprawled out on the armchair with a pile of her favorite books.  Many of the pages were soggy and frayed, only readable through the holograms projected on them when they were opened. 

“Your Grandmother’s coming to see you tonight,” Kirk told Stella, as she glanced up from the projections, “Did Father tell you?”

She nodded and set the book down.

“She isn’t Vulcan, at all,” Stella declared.

“No,” Kirk said, entertained by the sense of playful superiority he found within everyone with Vulcan blood, “She’s human.  Like Papa and I.”

“Why is she coming here?”

After carefully rearranging the books, Kirk sat down in his recliner.

“She wants to see you.  And we have a reception dinner tonight, at the Academy… Father and Papa.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going, too.”

Stella understood that she had not been invited; that morning, Spock explained that only instructors were attending, and permitted to bring their spouses. 

“She’s from Earth,” Stella confirmed, “Grandmother is.”

“Yes… from a different time, though, I imagine.”

“What would she like to do?”

Kirk smiled down at his daughter, as she eagerly set her books on the mantelpiece.  He explained some of his favorite Earth traditions, while they worked together to rearrange the furniture.

“Does this look like a tent?” Stella begged, casting a sheet over row of chairs.

Kirk adjusted it first, then nodded in confirmation.

“And you _sleep_ in them?”

“For fun,” he said, “But they used to be just the same as houses.”

Then they adjusted the dials which fueled the fireplace.  Kirk set a special recipe-tape before the synthesizer in the kitchen, and said Amanda would know what to do with it.

Stella watched her parents prepare for the evening, but took frequent glances at the tape and the tent.  Amanda arrived early, greeting Stella with a hug and her ‘boys’ with compliments and well-wishes.

They expected to find Stella asleep when they arrived home, in the lingering hours of the night.  Kirk walked in the center, with one arm around McCoy’s waist and the other hand pressed into Spock’s.

Amanda met them in the doorway, grinning and whispering.

She tossed her head toward the ‘tent’ in the common area.  There, Stella slept beneath projected stars, glowing from the spine of the largest book. 

“The s’mores were a big hit,” she said, “She asked if I would be here in the morning, to make them for breakfast?”

“Will you be?” Kirk leaned toward her and laughed.  McCoy tugged at the collar of his dress-uniform, to loosen it.  Spock reached to rub his neck.

“I think I could manage that,” Amanda smiled, stepping toward the campsite, “Don’t worry about sleeping in, now.”

Habit forced her to clasp fingers with each of them, before nudging them toward their bedroom.  She slept there on the recliner, enjoying nostalgic dreams.


	5. Give

Stella bounced happily into Daddy’s office, where he was trading half-graded assignments with Father.  She scooted up between them, waving her latest artistic creation.

Kirk squinted at it, before reaching for his glasses.  He asked Stella to hold it ‘just a bit’ further away, while Spock watched with a quirked brow.

He stopped.  The glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, but he did not reach to correct them.  Instead, he took hold of the picture, meticulously outlined and carefully – although inaccurately – colored in. 

“That’s the _Enterprise_ ,” Kirk mused, “Who taught you how to draw like that?”

She shrugged, giggled, and said there were about a dozen other, less accurate depictions.  These were in her room and would not be displayed.

“I looked at the model on your shelf,” she admitted.

“That’s exactly where this one’s going,” he promised, as she handed him the page, “I’m gonna frame it and put it right in the middle.”

…

Of course their marriage was celebrated on the _Enterprise_.  The newest and most accurate model available, gladly rented and decorated by the respectable Captain Sulu.  The former crew of the _Enterprise_ was thrilled at the upcoming excuse for reunion, and helped design the ceremony.

Everyone arrived in dress uniform.  Almost everyone left in joyous tears.

They blended Vulcan and Human customs; exchanging rings along with runes, and passing vows through their mental bond.  This was facilitated by the Vulcan salute, allowing each to touch two fingers to one another. 

Kirk, with a persistent smile, rearranged the entire apartment, the moment they entered it as husbands.  The bedroom was reconfigured for Spock’s fondness of the morning sun.  The chairs were pressed closer to the fireplace.  The shelves which housed Kirk’s nautical artifacts were finally dusted, and refitted with their wedding gifts.

Uhura, so invested in language, had found a collection of verses from each of their birthplaces.  Sulu pressed rose petals against the back covers.  Chekov found them a set of nesting dolls, from his own homeland, and – nudging Kirk – said a fourth could be made to fit inside.  Scotty provided a model of the _Enterprise_ , which he rightfully claimed to have constructed from memory.  Chapel offered to make their cake, ensuring it was safe for Vulcan consumption.  They kept the figurines, which she and Uhura had painted, stored on the uppermost shelf.

“Oh,” Jim had said, until the others looked at him.  They sat in the chairs, signing the thank-you-cards Kirk insisted on printing.

“Hmm?” McCoy ventured.

“You don’t think she can reach it, do you?  I don’t want her to knock anything over…”

“Let’s worry about that after she’s here.”

…

Like her Father, Stella did not understand the fascination with birthdays.  Daddy asked her what she wanted precisely fifteen times, while Papa’s count was stuck at eight.  Father asked once, because the others insisted.  When Stella said ‘you don’t need to get me anything’, he nodded and retired.

Despite this, she often overheard them discussing it, when she was supposedly asleep.  She pressed her ear to the door of their bedroom, and breathed quietly.

Spock was always aware of her presence, but never redirected the conversation.

“No,” McCoy said, every time Kirk even _thought_ about mentioning an animal. 

“You can only do dolls and books for so many years,” he countered.

“She is fond of flowers,” Spock suggested.  Stella danced on her tiptoes, on the other side of the door.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kirk said.  And he would, for years.

…

Her personal spacecraft was called _Zinnia_.  She received it, and hugs from each parent, the moment she passed her flying tests.

Spock volunteered to fly with her, first. 

…

Stella’s crafting was always encouraged, especially by her Papa. 

She once complained about not being able to braid anyone’s hair, at which he laughed and presented her with a case of colored twine. 

It took her less than a week to use all of the original thread, in perfecting her own styles.  She was careful in selecting the colors for each of her parents, and danced nervously when giving their gifts.

Kirk smiled, of course, and promised to wear it every day.  McCoy would, too, after she promised to tighten it, so it would not slip off during operations.  Spock nodded, understanding the custom, and set it on the desk.

Stella tried to hide her pouting from him, but Kirk caught her on the way to her bedroom.

“He’ll wear it,” he assured, patting her back.

That evening, before the fireplace as usual, Kirk held one end of the bracelet while McCoy held the other.  This was fastened gently around Spock’s wrist, while they traded knowing smiles and tapped the base of his palm.

…

She understood the different kisses to give them, too.  She got plenty of practice, when they met her in her room each night before bed.

Papa traded her warm kisses on the cheek.  She would giggle, when his breath meandered toward her ear.  She scrunched her shoulders up to meet it.

Daddy kissed her forehead, leaving her to reach the tip of his nose.  On nights he remembered to wear his glasses, he would playfully swat her away and let her kiss his hand instead.

Spock offered his fingertips, and learned to smile when she took them.

“I hope she never outgrows that,” Jim decided, when they were settled into their own bed and ritual.  Each held the others’ hands, until their bond lulled them to sleep with pleasant memories.


	6. Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a first time for everything.

“You’re a bit out of practice, Jim.”

“I’m not driving.”

“Just… humor me,” McCoy continued, “I’m a nervous wreck.”

Kirk and McCoy stood with their daughter between them, all staring up at the shuttlecraft.  Stella held their hands, and swayed back and forth.

“Ready when you are, Admiral.”  Spock joined them, standing formally at one side of the line.

“I hardly think this counts as being on-duty.” Kirk clarified, “ _Jim_.”

“Jim,” Spock said, apologetically.  McCoy grinned.

“Are you ready?” Kirk knelt to collect his daughter, as she nodded.  She was carried in on his shoulders, ducking to skim beneath the low ceiling of the ship.

Spock sat at the control panel, motioning for Kirk to sit beside him.  Stella was told to sit with Papa, after a brief protest, complete with attempts to fasten herself to the captain’s chair.

“Uncle Scotty would like that,” Kirk said, carrying her to the row of passenger-seats.  This was a shuttle the Academy loaned them.  Its primary function was collecting new students and bringing them to the campus for the first time.  McCoy noted, beneath his breath, how similar it was to the one he and Kirk had ridden there, decades ago.  He hoped the safety features had improved more than the appearance.

Stella wrapped one arm around her armrest, and the other around Papa.  Spock calmly listed the altitude readings, as they met them.  Occasionally, Kirk coughed, and adjusted his glasses before leaning over the blinking buttons.

“What do you think?” He asked, turning to face the passengers.  Stella was quiet, admitting that it did not _feel_ any different.  Spock nodded.

“No, but it’ll _look_ different,” Kirk promised, “Can I get the viewing screen up, Spock?”

“As you wish.”

McCoy leaned forward, pulling Stella closer and pointing at the emerging projector.

Stella stood and stepped toward it, stretching to see over Daddy’s chair. 

“It looks the same, too,” she observed.  Spock raised an eyebrow, and was tempted to laugh.

“Really?” Kirk asked, picking up the laugh Spock neglected.

“It’s just stars, isn’t it?”

“‘Just stars,’” quipped McCoy, “Did you hear that, Jim?  And I was starting to think she wasn’t my daughter…”

Teasingly, Kirk ignored them:

“Nearest planet, Spock?  Mars?”

“Visible in several minutes, Ad— _Jim_.”

“Good.  Wait ‘til you see _this_ , Sweetheart.”

She did.  And once she saw it, she was stunned and silent.

The red glow filled the majority of the screen.  They watched lights pulse from the main colony.  Spock pointed out dust clouds, which his daughter leapt forward to study.

“There are people there?” she asked, spreading her fingers over the screen to manipulate the picture.

“Yes,” said Spock.

“You learned about them in school,” Kirk reminded her.

“But I didn’t _see_ them!  Could we go and see them, Daddy?”

“What do you say, Spock?”

“I often find immersion to be the most effective of educational methods, particularly in cultural studies.”

“Good enough for me.” He glanced over his shoulder, “Bones?”

“Nervous wreck,” he repeated, struggling to nod.

“Somebody has to be.  Stella?”

She tore her eyes from the screen, slightly disappointed.

“Go and sit with Papa,” Jim instructed.

She learned, from her visits with Uncle Scotty, to say, “Yes, Sir.”

…

It was always Spock who tried to understand Stella’s babbling.  He sat in the armchair, staring down at her while she tottered about on the carpet, tugging at the loose fibers.

“It doesn’t _all_ have to mean something, Spock,” McCoy assured him.

“I do not see another reason for attempted communication.”

McCoy shrugged, and allowed Spock to lean forward and press his hand over their child's face.

The babbling stopped and the hand was withdrawn; no information was collected.

Stella watched her father retreat, and tried to follow him, stumbling forward.  McCoy shot up from his chair, to catch her arms.

“Where’s Jim?”

“He will not return home until approximately 17:15 hours.  As you may not recall, Doctor, he volunteered to administer examinations for—”

“Fine, Spock.  Get the visual-communicator, then.  He needs to see this.”

Stella watched them as they spoke, and again stretched to reach her father as he retreated down the corridor.  She began crying, when he walked beyond her line of sight.

McCoy scooped her up and tried to comfort her, stroking her hair and breathing ‘shh’ against her ear.  The Vulcan was best at consoling her, flattening any obtrusive thoughts.  McCoy tried to copy the form of his hands, and Stella relaxed quickly.

“Spock?” he called, gently returning Stella to her feet.

“On my way, Doctor.”

He arrived in time to record Stella’s first shaky steps.  While she tried to swat McCoy’s hands away, he refused to let go.

“Did you get it?” he asked Spock, unable to trim his smile.

“’It’,” said Spock, amused by the understatement, “Affirmative.”

McCoy sat on the sofa, holding Stella in his arms, while Spock displayed the recording between them.  The doctor insisted on watching it multiple times, muttering something about Joanna.  Spock knew it was best to remind him of his intent; McCoy immediately nodded and sent the video off to their husband.

Kirk had never rushed home from work so quickly.  He stood in the doorway, and was greeted by McCoy and Stella, only several steps away.  She still required assistance, but bounced excitedly toward her daddy.  He caught her hand, accepting it as McCoy dropped it.  They traded, and she spent the evening walking between them.  Spock praised her, rearranging words Sarek said to him years ago, letting genuine pride slip between them.

…

“I don’t see why not,” judged McCoy, “What do you think, Spock?”

“She is less than one-quarter Vulcan,” he said, “Odds of affliction are minimal.”

“No figures, Spock?”

“For preservation of time, Doctor, I chose to omit the calculation.  The result is near to zero.”

McCoy considered this a personal triumph, and stepped away to hide his smile.

“Thank you, Spock,” Kirk said, “I was afraid of doing a birthday party without it… it’s been in the family for centuries.”

He gestured at the tattered recipe, printed on yellowing paper.  McCoy shrugged and dared him to complete it without assistance.

“I _have_ cooked before,” Kirk replied.

“But not since Academy,” McCoy proposed, “I don’t remember you making anything else.”

Kirk considered the timeline and shrugged.

“So, I’m a bit rusty.”

Stella joined them in the kitchen, asking if anyone would pick her up.  Anyone.  This was often most effective, as they would all volunteer and she could have her choice.  Spock taught her not to refuse opportunities, as it was not logical to expect anything to repeat itself.

Effortlessly, Spock hoisted her up while the others collected ingredients and laughed at every mistake.  The wrong bowl.  Too much sugar.  Eggshells, which Kirk insisted on having McCoy retrieve from the bowl.

“I thought you didn’t need help,” he muttered, playfully wiping his hands on the apron Kirk wore.

Kirk shrugged, and set the bowl between them on the table.  Spock and Stella oversaw from what he determined to be a ‘safe distance.’

“Are you _sure_ you don’t need help, Daddy?”

Kirk and McCoy both glanced at her, while Spock set her down on the tabletop.  She scooted to the edge, kicking out both legs, and inspected the bowl.

“Just taste it and tell me if you like it,” Kirk offered, setting down his spoon, “That’s the best help you can be.”

She complied, but was quiet.

“Well?” prompted McCoy, “Any good?”

Kirk shrugged, and took a spoonful for himself.

“It’s not bad,” he said, passing the spoon to McCoy.  The doctor swiped one finger over the spoon, and took his sample from there.

Spock watched his daughter, reeling on the table. 

“I believe you should attempt a different recipe,” he said, still studying her.  At once, she became unusually talkative, and commented on her fingers, as they ‘tasted’ the entire bowl of batter.

He collected her hand and wiped it clean, using a towel McCoy tossed to him.

“That won’t be necessary,” Stella maintained, “I like the chocolate.”

…

After they were sure she was asleep, they migrated away from the crib, and quietly shut the bedroom door.

“I estimate vocal communication to begin within three weeks,” Spock said.

“Verbal?” McCoy clarified.

“I suppose so,” said Spock, “Although many of her cries have meanings, they are inconsistent.”

They sat down together, on the chairs in front of the fireplace.  Kirk retrieved coffee from the replicator.

“Wonder what her first word’ll be…” he began, leaning back in his seat.

“‘Daddy,’ I imagine,” McCoy suggested, “Something easy.”

“‘Papa’ is easier, I think.”

“Don’t you start, Jim.” McCoy said, between sips of his coffee, “You picked it.”

Spock glanced between them.

“What was your first word, Spock?” Kirk asked, setting his cup down on the center table.

“I was never told.  Nor do I remember.”

“I’m sure it was something challenging.  And _flawlessly_ logical.”

“Thank you, Doctor, but I must assume the opposite, as it was never relayed to me by my father.”

McCoy shrugged away his frown, and assured Spock that it did not matter.

Kirk turned, lips caught open in thought.

“It’ll be whatever she hears us saying most, won’t it?”

“And _he_ ,” McCoy answered, tossing a hand at Spock, “won’t say ‘Daddy’ or ‘Papa.’”

“No,” Spock conceded, “Unless she chooses to identify you as such, in which case I will not deny either title.”

“Really?” McCoy said, “I don’t think you’ll change at all.”

“And that’s fine,” Kirk agreed.

He set one hand flat against the armrest, and waited for Spock to answer it.  The Vulcan had learned to feel comfortable, pressed above Kirk’s hand and beneath McCoy’s, swirling through their ebbing thoughts and passions.


	7. Create

It was accomplished through the holodeck, their first official ‘date.’  Spock had only begun to inquire about the term’s origins when McCoy threatened to close his panel of the correspondence, leaving Kirk and Spock alone.  That happened often enough, he decided, after Spock apologized. 

“That sounded a bit emotional to me, Spock,” McCoy was impressed.

“Yes,” the reply was hesitant, and the white construct flickered around them, “I have not been so deeply persuaded by emotion in approximately six earth-years.” 

“Me either,” said Kirk, practicing a smile, “Shall we?”

He extended one arm to each side, waited for the others to accept them, and anticipated Spock’s praise of the hologram’s integrity; they all felt sweating skin and folded fabric.  Kirk’s dress uniform was stiff in contrast to Spock’s leisure robes and the foreign civilian clothes McCoy managed to borrow on the outpost.

“Have you selected an environment, Admiral?”

“We hardly need a distraction,” Kirk replied, after remembering to accept his new title.

“Then I don’t think it qualifies as a ‘date.’” McCoy decided.

The admiral shrugged and nestled his head apologetically onto McCoy’s shoulder.

“Where’ll it be then, Bones?”

By the end of their allotted time together, they had ‘been’ nowhere.  They had merely discussed their options, while reminiscing thoroughly about each one:

An ice cream shoppe in McCoy’s hometown, the treehouse of Kirk’s youth, Spock’s cabin on the original Enterprise.  They finally settled on visiting a boat; sitting leisurely on the stern-side of the vessel, enjoying cold coffee-liqueur, and staring up at a _Starry Night_ sky.  All would be satisfied, then.

It was Spock who checked the time and calculated the duration of their meeting.

“Admiral, your conference with Headquarters,” he advised, as Kirk tossed his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“Of course, Spock.  Thank you.”  He dropped the Vulcan hand, patting it twice as he retreated, “Would you do me a favor?”

“Most likely, Admiral.  What are you requesting?”

McCoy watched them, half-heartedly turning his head to face each speaker.

“A list.  Of all the… scenarios we mentioned.  We’ve got quite a few dates ahead of us, by the sound of things.”

* * *

Their marriage would have occurred in a hologram as well, if not for Kirk’s influence and Scott’s ingenuity. 

They would have been together, though, regardless.  Spock had cancelled his Academy lectures for the first - and only - time in his career.  Kirk politely rescheduled an interview, while McCoy insisted he had accidentally overslept.  There would be time for the public, and their questions, after the ceremony.

And so there was, more positive and supportive than any expected.

* * *

 

At first, Stella did not understand the projector, hidden in the back room of the apartment.

McCoy was home with her on the day she resolved to read the instructions and program it herself.

“Where are you going?” he asked, as she walked, determined, down the corridor.

“Vulcan,” Stella said, without turning her head.

“Hmm,” he mused, raising an eyebrow, “really?”

His daughter did not pause; McCoy sighed and followed her.  He watched as she switched the machine on, and tapped carefully at the keypad.

The lights dimmed, yet the room became warmer.  McCoy blinked, after being suddenly and forcibly made aware of the sand in the artificial atmosphere.

“That’s not half-bad,” he decided, as Stella continued perfecting the color of the sky.

“I want it to be authentic,” she explained, “What percentage of Vulcan-blood is copper?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, “About half…?  Why?”

She turned one of the dials, just slightly to the left, and studied her skin as it became paler.

“We need to react properly to the atmosphere.”

And while he knew it soothed her deep-rooted desire to be entirely, authentically Vulcan, he stayed quiet.  Instead, he glanced at his hands, and found them slightly green, too.

“C’m’ere,” he grinned, “we’ve gotta take a picture.  Your Father’ll lose his mind.”

* * *

 

Best of all, the holodeck allowed the three of them to attend all of Stella’s showcases; lyre concerts, multilingual spelling competitions, and, later, her robotic engineering trials.

They would gather, from two - or even three - separate places, stalled for all different reasons, and watch.  She could never hear their clapping, but looked forward to it when they were reunited again.


End file.
